had a weary and indifferent air. Georgette ran her eye over it without much attention, thinking apparently of something else.
As she turned the pages, the name of Charles written at the head of each of them, ended by trying her patience.
“Always Charles,” she said to herself. “My cousin has a fine handwriting; those long sloping letters have a very serious aspect. His hand rarely trembles, even when he presses mine. My cousin is a very sedate young man. One of these days he is to be my husband. At each ball he takes my program, without asking me, and writes himself down for the first dance. That is no doubt a husband’s right. That right displeases me.”
The program became more and more cold. Georgette gazing into space, seemed to be working out some momentous problem.
“A husband,” she resumed, “that is what frightens me. Charles always treats me as a little girl; because he won eight or ten prizes at college, he considers himself compelled to be pedantic. After all I don’t know exactly why he should be my husband; I never asked him to marry me; he on his side has never asked my permission. We played together formally; I remember he was very unkind. Now he is very polite; I should like him better if he were unkind. So, I am going to be his wife; I had never seriously thought of that: his wife, I really don’t see the reason why. Charles, always Charles! One would think I belonged to him already. I shall ask him not to write so big on my program: his name occupies too much space.”
The little book, which also seemed tired of cousin Charles, almost closed itself with weariness. I suspect ball-programs of feeling the most candid hatred for husbands. This one turned over its pages and slyly presented other names to Georgette.
“Louis,” murmured the child. “That name recalls a singular dancer. He came, almost without looking at me, and asked me to grant him a quadrille. Then, at the first sounds of the instruments, he dragged me to the other end of the ballroom, I cannot understand why, opposite a tall, fair lady, who was following him with her eyes. At times he smiled at her, and so absolutely forgot my presence, that on two occasions I was obliged to pick up my bouquet myself. When the dance brought him near her, he spoke to her in an undertone; as for me, I listened, but could understand nothing. Perhaps it was his sister. His sister, oh! no: he trembled when he took her hand; then when he held that hand in his, the orchestra summoned him in vain to my side. I stood there like a stupid, with my arm stretched out, which looked very bad; the figures were all in confusion. It was perhaps his wife. How simple I am! His wife, really, yes! but Charles never speaks to me when dancing. It was perhaps—”
Georgette remained with parted lips absorbed in reflection, like a child placed before an unknown toy, not daring to approach and opening her eyes to see better. She listlessly counted the tassels on the counterpane, her right hand extended and wide open on the program. The latter began to show signs of animation; it stirred about and seemed to know perfectly well who the fair lady was. I am unaware whether the libertine confided the secret to the young girl. She drew back the lace which was slipping down, over her shoulders, completed scrupulously counting the tassels on the counterpane, and at last said in an undertone:
“It’s singular, that beautiful lady was neither M. Louis’ wife nor his sister.”
She resumed turning over the pages. A name soon stopped her.
“This Robert is a wicked man,” she continued. “I should never have thought that any one with such an elegant waistcoat could be so base-minded. For a full quarter of an hour he was comparing me to a thousand beautiful things — the stars, flowers, and I know not what else. I felt flattered. I experienced so much pleasure that I did not know what to answer. He spoke well, and for a long time without stopping. Then he led me back to my seat, and there he almost wept at leaving me. Afterwards I went to a window; I was hidden by the curtains which hung down behind me. I was thinking a little, I fancy, of my chatterbox of a partner, when I overheard him laughing and talking. He was speaking to a friend of a silly little thing, who blushed at the slightest word, of a novice just fresh from a convent, who cast down her eyes and made herself ugly by her over modest demeanour. No doubt he was alluding to Thérèse, my dear friend. Thérèse has small eyes and a large mouth. She is a very good girl. Perhaps they were alluding to me. So young men tell falsehoods, then! So, I am ugly. Ugly! Thérèse, however, is more so. They must certainly have been alluding to Thérèse.”
Georgette smiled, and felt a sort of inclination to run and consult her mirror.
“Then,” she added, “they made fun of the ladies at the ball. I continued listening, and at last I failed to understand.
I — fancied they were using ugly words. As I could not get away I courageously stopped my ears.”
The ball-program was convulsed with laughter. It proceeded to quote a swarm of names to prove to Georgette that Thérèse was indeed the silly little thing who made herself appear ugly by a too modest demeanour.
“Paul has blue eyes,” it said. “Paul assuredly does not tell falsehoods, and I have heard him say very sweet things to you.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated Georgette, “M. Paul has blue eyes, and M. Paul does not tell falsehoods. He has fair moustachios, which I like much better than those of Charles.”
“Don’t speak to me of Charles,” continued the program; “his moustachios do not deserve the faintest smile. What do you think of Edouard? He is timid, and only dares speak with his eyes. I don’t know if you understand that language. And Jules? He affirms that you alone know how to waltz. And Lucien, and Georges, and Albert? They all consider you charming, and for long hours beg the charity of a smile.” Georgette recommenced counting the tassels on the counterpane. The program’s chattering began to alarm her. She felt the book was burning her hands; she would have liked to close it, but had not the courage.
“For you were the queen,” continued the demon. “Your lace wouldn’t hide your arms, your forehead of sixteen summers put your tiara in the shade. Ah! my Georgette, you could not see all, otherwise you would have shown pity. The poor fellows feel very sad at the present moment!”
And there was a silence significative of commiseration. The child who was listening, smiling and on the alert, seeing the program remain silent, murmured:
“A bow had fallen from my gown. Surely that made me look ugly. The young men must have made fun as they passed. Those dressmakers are so careless!”
“Did not he dance with you?” interrupted the program. “Who do you mean?” inquired Georgette, blushing so much that her shoulders became quite pink.
And pronouncing, at last, a name she had had before her eyes for a quarter of an hour, and which her heart was spelling out to her, whilst her lips spoke of a torn gown, she said: “M. Edmond seemed sad last night. I saw him looking at me from a distance. As he was afraid to approach, I rose and went over to him. He could not do otherwise than ask me to dance.”
“I am very fond of M. Edmond,” sighed the little book. Georgette pretended not to understand. She continued:
“In dancing I felt his hand trembling on my waist. He stammered out a few words, complaining of the heat. Seeing he cast a look of envy at the roses in my bouquet, I gave him one. There was no harm in that.”
“Oh no! Then, in taking the flower, his lips by a peculiar chance came close to your fingers. He gave them a little kiss.”
“There is no harm in that,” repeated Georgette, who for a few moments had been very restless in bed.
“Oh no! But I must really scold you for having made him wait for that
